Romance is a continuum of male absurdity. On one end is Pepé Le Pew bothering you, the other is Young Werther committing suicide at you.
Romance is a glow. It’s the light that you shine on your beloved, that they shine back onto you.
Romance is a product. It’s the carnival teddy bear, the red rose bought from a 5-gallon bucket, it’s the couples massage in a tent on the beach.
Romance is a little bit sus. Romance is the lore of the chase, of seduction, and there’s a fine line between chase and pursuit, between seduction and coercion.
Romance is just a little bit sexless. It’s not very erotic. Its music has string instruments and words strung out on long notes, and you can’t always fuck to it.
Romance is a straightjacket. It’s a hacky old script that you’ve seen a million times so you know all of its beats. If you slow down in the middle you can actually feel yourself piloting your own meat suit, like the funny lil dude in Men in Black.
Romance is grand. It gives you these huge new roles, Lover and Beloved. You can’t speak it in any of the five love languages. It crushes crushes,
hammer & jack 